Frozen
by FortunesRevolver
Summary: His gaze shifts and settles on his hand as it moves to brush the hair from her face, but his movements stop as he realises it's stained crimson. The warm, sticky liquid coats it like a second skin, and a quick, unconscious flick of his finger causes a drop to fall. It's all it takes for the final threads of his resolve to shatter. (HuScal; take on a scene just after Fendel.)


Here is that Tales of Graces story I promised with the Vesperia upload. I can't remember exactly what it was that prompted me to write this, but I would like to say it is dedicated to _**xkiwimonsterx**_, who is one of the coolest people I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. I'm fairly certain the entire point of this fanfic was to poke at her feelings for her Graces OTP, but... yes.

This is an alternate take at a scene in the game just after you leave Fendel and Pascal saves Hubert from getting ambushed from the monster. I actually put a rather stupid amount of work into this, so I'm really hoping you all love it. Kiwi-face loved it, so that pretty much made my day when I handed her a printed copy. Hopefully she love the cleaned up version too.

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As he stares at Pascal, Hubert wonders how it came to this. If he'd not been so careless and turned his back to the enemy, she wouldn't have had to push him away – she wouldn't be _hurt._ He barely remembers pulling the young Amarcian into his arms, but it was somewhere between the time she hit the ground and Malik's shout for the others to prepare themselves. He can't register the battle going on beside them and his focus is locked on the scene in front of him. He raises a hand, trying to focus on the glowing stream of blue surrounding it, but he's trembling too much to steady a healing spell that's useful. The lieutenant's focus dies and he feels something plummet into his stomach; he can't seem to get his cryas to stay charged long enough. Her clothes are wet and sticky with the same crimson substance staining the pristine white snow around them and it takes all his will-power not to vomit.

By now, the shaking has extended to Hubert's entire body and whatever had just fallen in his stomach has shot upward, lodging itself in his throat. Pascal's voice is mute and the silence is terrifying, because Pascal has never been a quiet person in all the time he's known her. She's too still, the sudden lack of movement in her limbs making his feel stiff and useless.

It isn't right. None of it is.

She is supposed to be smiling, with arms spread wide in crazy gestures as she shouts about something inane and he scolds her to quiet down. Her grin is meant to widen as she talks just a little louder, making him flush with indignation. Her eyes are meant to be wide and vibrant as they sparkle with a passion he can't understand about subjects that don't make sense, but most of all, they're supposed to be _open._ Her skin is cold to the touch, and that's not at all how it's supposed to be because _he's_ the cold one. She is supposed to be warm, warm and bright and vibrant like the brilliant and beautiful spring she is; washing sunlight over his dark, frozen winter.

He's desperate now, and his sentences are mixing together in a clumsy rush of words as he tries to make her respond. He pleads, casting aside the pride he once so stubbornly held so high, begging for her to just sit up and _say_ something. To make up words that don't exist out of even more words he's never heard before, and to just keep talking and never stop. He'd rather have an eternity of her babble than nothing at all.

A sudden light catches him off-guard and he nearly ends up attacking the crouching form of Cheria, her hands surrounded by cryas as she tends to Pascal's wounds. He parts his lips and tries to say 'thank you', but it doesn't sound like anything more than a strangled noise. The healer merely nods in response, not wanting to shift her focus, and he's grateful she understands. He watches with detached fascination as the laceration slowly closes itself, but the sickness in his stomach doesn't fade away. There's still too much red. Red. Red. Red. It surrounds her, surrounds him, and tries to focus on the clear skin of Cheria's knee; it's the only clean thing within eyeshot and he needs that stability, even if it's only brief.

His gaze shifts and settles on his hand as it moves to brush the hair from her face, but his movements stop as he realises it's stained crimson. The warm, sticky liquid coats it like a second skin, and a quick, unconscious flick of his finger causes a drop to fall.

It's all it takes for the final threads of his resolve to shatter.

Before anyone can move, Hubert is pulling Pascal closer to his chest, trying to push the warm from his body into her own. The world around him has disappeared and all that's left is red and cold and Pascal. His throat feels as if it's been sealed shut, but his vocal cords manage to produce a raspy, broken tone as he repeats "Pascal" and "please" over and over again. He has never been one for religion or worship, but suddenly the names of deities are filling his mind and he's asking all of them for the one blessed grace of letting her live. He doesn't care what the price is, be it all the gald to his name, his titles, or even his own life force; they're free to take whatever they want, as long as it isn't_ her._

The body in his arms shifts and Hubert nearly drops her in the rush to pull back. His eyes are wide, red, and swollen, but he doesn't care or notice. Golden-amber irises are peering out from under half-lids into his cerulean orbs, and suddenly, he's forgotten how to breathe. Pascal's hand is moving slowly and deliberately toward his face, and he struggles to remember that, twenty minutes ago, he likely would have swatted it away. He can't imagine himself ever even attempting it now, nor anytime in the future. The material of her glove feels rough against his breeze-bitten cheek as her thumb brushes over his chilled skin, wiping away small trails of water he hadn't realised were there.

"You shouldn't cry in the snow, lil' bro…" Her voice is soft, cracked, and weak, but Hubert swears he's never heard something so wondrously beautiful in his life. "It'll… make your glasses go all white and cloudy-like… and then we can't… build snow bananas."

His chest constricts, tightening painfully before his pulse bursts into an unexpected rush of frantic fluttering_._ The icy chill of the snow and wind are no longer there. Warmth is slowly returning to her body and the snow melts away as spring rushes back into his desolate world and he laughs. It's awkward and uneven, cracking every few seconds as the laughter is mixed with strangled cries and tears, but he laughs. The red has melted out of his vision and all he can see is _colour_ and _life_ and _Pascal_.

For once, the Amarcian keeps her bizarre form of comments to herself and opts to return the embrace she's been given with a light laugh of her own and small smile. Hubert's arms are trembling, but strength is quickly returning to him. When he finally finds his voice again, he promises that he'll build an entire _tree_ with her if she promises to never scare him like this again. Pascal responds with a light giggle as she feels the 'crazy thumpity-pound-whump' of his heart against her chest, and wonders if he can feel hers, too.


End file.
